The Broken Window

Whitcomb, the Compliance Department assistant, smiled agreeably. Pulaski figured he must really love his job to be still working so late-just after nine-thirty. But then, the cop realized, he himself was still on the job.

“Another killing? And that same guy did it?”

“We’re pretty sure.”

The young man frowned. “I’m sorry. Jesus. When?”

“About three hours ago.”

They were in Whitcomb’s office, which was a lot homier than Sterling’s. And sloppier too, which made it more comfortable. He set aside the legal pad he was jotting on and gestured at a chair. Pulaski sat, noting pictures of family on his desk, some nice paintings on the walls, along with diplomas and some professional certificates. Pulaski had glanced up and down the quiet halls, extremely glad that Cassel and Gillespie, the school bullies, weren’t here.

“Say, that your wife?”

“My sister.” Whitcomb gave a smile but Pulaski had seen that look before. It meant, this’s a tough subject. Had the woman died?

No, it was the other answer.

“I’m divorced. Keep pretty busy here. Tough to have a family.” The young man waved his arm, indicating SSD, Pulaski supposed. “But it’s important work. Real important.”

“I’m sure it is.”

After trying to reach Andrew Sterling, Pulaski called Whitcomb, who had agreed to meet the cop and hand over the time sheets for that day-to see which of their suspects had been out of the office at the time the groundskeeper was killed.

“I’ve got some coffee.”

Pulaski noted that the man had a silver tray on his desk, with two china cups.

“I remembered how you liked it.”

“Thanks.”

The slim man poured.

Sipping the coffee. It was good. Pulaski was looking forward to the day when finances improved and he could afford a cappuccino maker. He loved his coffee. “You work late every night?”

“Pretty often. Government regulations’re tough in any industry but in the information business the problem is that nobody’s quite sure what they want. For instance, states can make a lot of money selling driver’s license information. Some places the citizens go ballistic and the practice’s banned. But in other states it’s perfectly okay.

“Some places, if your company gets hacked you have to notify the customers whose information gets stolen, whatever kind of data it is. In other states you only have to tell them if it’s financial information. Some, you don’t have to tell them anything. It’s a mess. But we’ve got to stay on top of it.”

Thinking of security breaches, Pulaski was stabbed by guilt that he’d stolen the empty-space data from SSD. Whitcomb had been with him around the time he’d downloaded the files. Would the Compliance officer get into trouble if Sterling found out about it?

“So here we go.” Whitcomb handed him about twenty pages of time sheets for that day.

Pulaski flipped through them, comparing the names with their suspects. First, he noted the time Miguel Abrera had left-a little after 5:00 P.M. Then Pulaski’s heart jolted when he happened to glance down at the name Sterling. The man had left just seconds after Miguel, as if he were following the janitor… But then Pulaski realized that he’d made a mistake. It was Andy Sterling, the son, who’d left then. The CEO had left earlier-at about four-and had returned only about a half hour ago, presumably after business drinks and dinner.

Again, he was angry with himself that he hadn’t read the sheet properly. And he’d nearly called Lincoln Rhyme when he’d seen the two departure times so close together. How embarrassing would that have been? Think better, he told himself angrily.

Of the other suspects, Faruk Mameda-the night-shift technician with the attitude-had been in SSD at the time of the killing. Technical Operations Director Wayne Gillespie’s entries revealed that he’d left a half hour before Abrera but he’d returned to the office at six and stayed for several hours. Pulaski felt a petty disappointment that this seemed to take the bully off the list. All the others had left with enough time to follow Miguel to the cemetery or to precede him there and lie in wait. In fact, most employees were out of the office. Sean Cassel, he noticed, had been out for much of the afternoon but had returned-a half hour ago.

“Helpful?” Whitcomb asked.

“A little. You mind if I keep this?”

“No, go right ahead.”

“Thanks.” Pulaski folded the sheets and put them into his pocket.

“Oh, I talked to my brother. He’s going to be in town next month. Don’t know if you’d be interested but I was thinking you might like to meet him. Maybe you and your brother. You could swap cop stories.” Then Whitcomb smiled, embarrassed, as if that was the last thing police officers wanted to do. Which it wasn’t, Pulaski could have told him; cops loved cop stories.

“If the case, you know, is solved by then. Or what do you say?”

“Closed.”

“Like that TV show. The Closer, sure…If it’s closed. Probably can’t have a beer with a suspect.”